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Night was purer than day, it seemed to Reid.

It was better for thinking and loving and dreaming. At night everything was more intense and more true. The echo of words that might have been spoken during the day took on a new and deeper meaning.

You promised me heaven and then put me through hell.

The genius scrubbed desperately at his face, trying in vain to drain Hotch's words from his muddled mind. It appeared the more he rubbed his eyes the heavier the words became on his tongue - the moon had awoken and the meaning of what was once a seemingly frivolous verbal lashing now held an unfathomable significance. It was causing Reid's body to feel like a live copper wire, electrified with a searing pain that shot up through his nerves and murdered any relinquishing comfort dwelling in his limbs.

I don't want to put you through hell, Aaron.

Please, hear me.

It's the Dilaudid.

The agent wanted to cry out, to scream for his life or for anything to calm the great trembling that throttled his body. He felt like his heart was being sawed from his chest and he tore at his Kevlar, shaking the protective weight off onto the bed beside him.

He had been right in pinpointing Professor Walker as the UnSub and hours after the team had gathered again, throwing themselves frantically into the cars to warrant an arrest, Reid found himself alone in the bedroom of the soup kitchen owner, clawing at his stinging skin.

The shrill pain weakened only momentarily and Reid blinked in a short series. The moonlight sparkling from the open window pierced the agent's unseeing golden eyes and through the deep grey night he could make out the outline of a rundown house set far behind the current establishment the FBI swarmed around.

Slowly and thickly, he was losing his mind. So out of his mind in fact that as he stared at the moon, he swore the sky had become blanketed by his lover's Gotham-style darkness, swallowing up what little light the great big rock in the sky had to offer.

A framed photograph sat as a silent witness on a table under the window and Reid favored the edge of it, studying the same rundown house in the picture as he saw outside.

Same weathered slats, same chain-link gate.

Same ghostly aura.

Hotch's words were instantly erased, replaced by the insistent clinking of a gate on a clasp and the twinkle of just knowing circling around in Reid's brain battled with his lover's haunting desperation.

He couldn't wait for the team to arrive.

He couldn't control the driven profiler within him.

He clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth together, and grasped the bedspread in white-hot fists, trying - trying - to get words out to Hotch, to let him know what he knew.

Nothing came.

Professor Walker was in that house. Reid was sure.

His throat was smoky, smothering any chance of a voice to call out, and his tongue felt like it had been coated in a viscous caramel that killed any breath to come.

It was pure fucking fire that burned up his veins and his heart. His hands were numb as he struggled with the latch on the window. It creaked with effort as it opened and he slung his long legs over the ledge, slipping like a graceful viper into the oppressively black night.

The last dregs of the moon pooled over his navy Kevlar, casting an icy ray on the polished wood trim of the .38 Smith & Wesson revolver left behind, belonging to one Dr. Spencer Reid.

Downstairs, Hotch's cool black eyes were steely, running a short appraisal over the agents of his team who milled around sprouting weeds and crumbling structures. He narrowed his eyes speculatively at the carbon Rolex Submariner wrapped securely around his right wrist for what seemed to be the fiftieth time in three minutes and he touched his fingertips to the wire that curled around his neck. He swallowed the coiling worry that blossomed in his gut when he still hadn't heard from Reid, who had vanished into the house with Rossi and Morgan, though the two agents had reappeared sans genius after clearing the ground floor.

"Sir! I-" Seaver's long blonde ponytail swished into the Unit Chief's bold gaze and he held up a palm, halting her in her tracks.

"I'm going inside. Remain out here with Prentiss." He commanded, his tone as authoritative and firm as ever. His cool control was quickly withering as the silence ticked onwards.

"I'm coming too," Rossi offered, tightening the straps of his bulletproof vest and following his superior back inside. After a beat, Morgan followed, the tactical illumination on his weapon shooting ribbons of light into the shadows.

The three men climbed the stairs with firm steps that beat the wood beneath their boots and with each foot climbed higher Hotch felt himself constrict with concern and anger. Still only silence poured through their wires, no hint of Reid's lecturing tone at all. That his young subordinate still remained so recklessly out of communication was something too frighteningly familiar and too unnerving to handle.

Hotch threw his might against the closed door, his hands fitting snugly around the trigger of his gun, and the closure blew open and slammed against the opposite wall.

"Reid!" He called frantically. "Spencer!"

"I'll check back downstairs," Morgan growled; rage filling his throat as he assessed the empty bedroom. He shook his head and lowered his gun as he exited, knowing in his gut that his friend's disappearing act was going to kill his inhuman chief.

Rossi lowered his gun as well, stepping through the room and reaching the edge of the bed. He glanced back at Hotch who was instantly on his phone, stabbing at Reid's number on his keyboard and listening to the mindless drone of the infinite ring.

Hi, you've reached Dr. Spencer Reid...

He dialed another number.

"Prentiss, did Reid come outside with you?" Hotch's voice sounded like a challenge, even mildly threatening and Rossi studied the man as his eyes began to widen in worry and his mouth became a hard, unrelenting and impassive line. "He's not answering his phone."

The air was tainted with the promises Reid had made to Hotch to not utterly destroy the man.

You promised me heaven and put me through hell.

Hotch was in hell.

"No, no one's come outside except Morgan," Emily bit her lip, surveying the grounds around her. She could hear the crisp edge of hysteria staining Hotch's sterile tone. The flames were licking generously at his stone cold flesh and Emily knew with each second of silence from Reid that her superior's heart took a brutal knifing.

"Keep an eye out for him," Hotch's voice dropped to a kitten-soft tone as though he were too scared to even get the words out. "Please, Emily."

Desperation.

Absolute terror.

It was a tone neither Emily over the phone nor Rossi in the bedroom had heard. It strangled each agent to witness the downfall of someone so close. The veteran agent holstered his weapon and inhaled sharply when his eye caught sight of two objects lying on the weather-beaten rug beside the bed.

"Reid's vest? Well this is not good."

To be continued!

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